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  • Eat, Pray, Laugh
  • Rachel Creeger (bio)

I recently got chatting to a man while waiting at the bus stop. He asked what I did, and when I told him, he replied, "Oh, I love Jewish comedians, I'm a huge fan of Michael McIntyre!" So much to unpick in that. I wasn't surprised that his favorite Jewish comedian was a man. I was a little bit surprised that his favorite Jewish comedian isn't Jewish.

I've been an artist, an addiction therapist, a singer/songwriter in a girl band, a social worker, and even had a brief but eventful stint as a dental nurse. Throughout these experiences I've remained firmly present in my Jewish life and been entirely myself, ensuring that my work doesn't clash with my beliefs. I've learned a lot about the barriers Jewish women come up against in the pursuit of these careers. I've also had to learn to embrace my inner performer. I have all of the classic building-block issues of a stand-up comic: I was bullied at school, became a truant, and failed my exams. I have experienced mental health issues. I am from a minority background. I am a word-magpie, collecting terms and phrases and hoarding them like jewels.

I grew up in the 1970s on a council estate (subsidized housing) in Essex, which housed both the first synagogue in the area and the local chapter of the British National Party. They would often protest against our and other minority communities and occasionally throw eggs at us as we walked to or from synagogue, or stones and rocks at the building. The response of our community was to continue to practice our faith and to make jokes between ourselves and to them about the hate. Humor has always been a coping strategy for Jewish people; it takes the sting out of whatever is happening and gives power to the comedic speaker. As Mel Brooks said, "If they're laughing, how can they bludgeon you to death?"

I come from a traditional Jewish family. My grandparents were refugees and immigrants and nominally Orthodox, although not too fussy about the inconvenient bits. Both of my grandfathers were tremendous [End Page 263] storytellers, and my paternal grandmother had the darkest sense of humor you could imagine. They may never have set foot on stage, but I learned how to deliver an anecdote from them. My mother's family, like many German Jews, were passionate about the arts and would save their pennies to ensure that they could expose us to culture. During school holidays we would go to the opera, ballet, and a pantomime at Christmas. I joined my first choir at the age of five in my primary school and sang my way through my school life in community theater, bands, and choirs.

Over time my family became more religious. In traditional Orthodox culture, Jewish girls aged twelve and above are not allowed to perform, especially to sing in front of men. This is down to an interpretive choice of the word `ervah in our scripture and the Talmud, a word that has connotations rather than a strict translation. It means revealing and vulnerable, which really passionate singing can make you feel about the performer. But in those patriarchal times—and arguably in these patriarchal times, too—it has been translated as nakedness rather than heartfelt and touching. Because nakedness and touching were something the sages wanted us to avoid before marriage, there was no more singing in front of men. I now choose not to accept that, or the many discussions debating whether Miriam and other women actually danced and sang in front of Moses and the men after the exodus from Egypt, or to greet King Saul, or in the Temple of Solomon.

This desire to reinterpret the text and wipe away women's voices has never sat well with me, and I explored it in my first solo stand-up comedy show, "It's No Job For A Nice Jewish Girl." The show looked at familial and communal expectations, the desire to conform, and the drive to rebel. It also broke down my experiences...

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